Her eyes were wide open with amazement. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He wouldn’t like it if people did it to him. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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